From Every Depth of Good and Ill
by grumkinsnark
Summary: He doesn't believe in the capricious old gods of the North, but as the wind howls, it's them and not his own that seem to urge him, Wrong wrong wrong. You've been warned.


_Prompt: It was too easy._

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 **From Every Depth of Good and Ill**

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 _It's too easy._

That's the first thought that crosses his mind as the wolf maid mounts up next to him. Abducting the only daughter of Lord Rickard Stark should be harder than this. He'd only just hit his twenty-fourth name day, yet for the past nine of those years he's been the Sword of the Morning, and the intuition he's learned to trust above all else twists and roils— _it shouldn't be this easy_. There should be people after them: her tempestuous brother Brandon, mayhaps, or Stark guardsmen, or Tully men-at-arms, _someone_.

Instead, he'd watched Lyanna Stark climb out the inn's window concealed in a thick black cloak with a wild glint in her eyes. Every minute of every day since he'd left Dragonstone he'd been awash with the _dishonor_ of it all, wanting nothing more than to tell Rhaegar, _No, please don't make me do this_ , wanting nothing more than to return to _her_. Her and her sweet kisses, her sensual touches, her iron will.

But no, his guilt over loving her had him telling Rhaegar, _Yes, sire, I shall meet you at dawn_ , and now here he is, helping his prince snatch a fifteen-year-old girl more child than woman away from her family. That she'd been all too pleased to come along is irrelevant in his opinion. He can't possibly understand how Rhaegar doesn't see the sheer folly of this decision, but what is Arthur but dutiful to the bitter end? What Rhaegar would have done if he'd refused to aid him he doesn't know; he should have tried anyway. Let him know this _isn't_ all right, that there will be consequences to his actions. Nothing about this could end painlessly.

"Are you well, Ser Arthur?" asks the girl as they kick their horses into a canter.

 _Well? Not remotely._ "I am, my lady. Fret not."

She bites her lip in doubt, but since the very moment she'd spotted him, he'd seen the intimidation in her expression. It's beneficial, granted, for though she stares at him constantly, she's also mostly silent. He's never been comfortable with how people gush over his deeds—Elia certainly had always kept him modest—and he hates the talk of him being the greatest swordsman to ever live, for how could they presume him to best Aemon the Dragonknight?—but in this, he'll take it.

Mostly, he's half-afraid that if she speaks, he'll lash out, and _then_ where would they be? It's been too long since he's hit something; he'd rather that something not be the daughter of Winterfell.

It's no great distance from the inn to the shores of the Gods Eye, where they come upon Rhaegar leaning against a tree, his silver hair gleaming in the moonlight. Lyanna blushes bright red and Arthur fights the urge to roll his eyes. Rhaegar's the most beautiful man in the Seven Kingdoms, no one could dispute that, but it's no excuse for every maiden turning into mush as soon as they gaze upon his face.

Well, every maiden except one. Elia hadn't so much as stuttered when she met him. He's never considered himself a particularly jealous man, not even when he'd found out Baelor fucking _Hightower_ had been one of her suitors, but watching her fawn over the prince would have been too much to bear.

"Lady Lyanna," Rhaegar greets, kissing her hand. "Welcome."

Arthur frowns. He's been friends with the prince for nigh on twelve years now, and knows even better the affectations Rhaegar uses when he wants to charm someone. Until now, it'd only been used on the lords he'd been wooing to help side against his father, but he uses it now on her and that worries him. Arthur's under no illusions, he knows full well why Rhaegar really wants the girl, and it's not for the magnanimous reasons Lyanna thinks it is. He just hadn't thought Rhaegar would feel the need to use _that_ voice on her, when she's so clearly already smitten.

They set off immediately, Lyanna on her grey palfrey, Rhaegar atop his black destrier, and Arthur on his ivory sand steed. Sunspear's renowned master of horse had gifted him the mare on the day he earned his knighthood, and Ny Sar had taken to him as easily as if Arthur had trained her himself. Mares, Ser Dagos had insisted, were less high-strung than stallions, more loyal than geldings, and fearsome on the battlefield. _Much like our women, eh, Dayne?_ the old goat had chortled. Fortunately, Arthur's not needed to test her in a proper battle yet, but through every tourney and skirmish she's served him well.

She swishes her tail in frustration now, though, irritated at not being allowed her head. Rhaegar had set a decent pace for them, but Arthur brings up the slower rear, the better to fend off any pursuers. Except there aren't any, the night silent but for the chirps of insects and the beat of the horses' hooves, and once again Arthur thinks, _It's too easy._

Despite being more inconspicuous by staying off the kingsroad, doing so also makes for rougher going. It's nearly daybreak before Rhaegar finds a suitable copse of trees and calls a halt for them to rest and water the horses. Trusting Ny Sar wouldn't wander far, Arthur lets her roam instead of tying her off and offers to take the first watch.

"Are you certain?" Rhaegar asks. "You've been awake for—"

"I said I'll take it." Normally he isn't so short with the prince, but he's been less and less inclined for respect since they headed north. Rhaegar bristles at the insolence but doesn't bother addressing it.

Mere minutes pass before Arthur's restlessness gets the better of him, and he takes to pacing, fatigue itching behind his eyes and a headache pulsing at his temples. The wind begins to pick up, rustling branches and dead leaves. He doesn't believe in the capricious old gods of the North, but as the wind howls, it's them and not his own that seem to urge him, _Wrong wrong wrong. You've been warned._


End file.
